


Remorse and Regret

by Myrgh_Kerenza



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Episode: s03e10 Amends, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrgh_Kerenza/pseuds/Myrgh_Kerenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Season 3's "Amends", Angel is tormented by the First Evil, who takes on the visages of Darla, Spike and Drusilla in order to break him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remorse and Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr blog, daffodilsandviscera.
> 
> Disclaimer: I seriously don't own anything.

Angel sat on the couch in the mansion, rocking slightly. Where Jenny Calendar had stood in front of him only a moment ago, a new woman took her place. Her Chinese-style robes brushed the floor as she sat beside him. Her eyes were full of tears. Regret.

“My dear boy… what has she done to you?” she said, reaching towards his face.

Angel swallowed hard. “Darla…”

Darla frowned, dropping her hand before it made contact. “She made you soft. Made you kill me. For her.”

Angel looked down, the betrayal in her voice stinging him. Darla stood abruptly, the pain in her eyes drowned by anger.

“You’re a fool,” she said scathingly, meeting his eyes in a glare. “Do you think you’re one of them? After all this time? You’ll never be one of them. A human.” She took a step closer, kneeling beside him. “I saved you from that,” she reminded him. “The dizzying mediocrity. I made you something greater.”

Now Angel stood, walking away from her. She stared after him seriously.

“You were a god, Angelus,” she said sharply. “All of humanity cowered before us, whimpering their prayers and begging for mercy. No one could outrun us.”

She got to her feet, approaching him again, stepping close. “That’s who you were—who you are.”

Angel stiffened at her proximity. “That’s not who I am anymore—I have a soul…”

Darla rolled her eyes. “Those idiot gypsies cursed you. Made you a disgusting half-breed. Took away who you were.” She shifted and caught his gaze, holding it powerfully. “They took you from me, Angelus. They stole my boy. I was left alone, for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. It was agony, Angel!”

“It—It made me better,” argued Angel weakly, trying to look away. But he couldn’t. “Made me good…”

“Good?” asked Darla mockingly, her eyebrows raised. “Is that what you tell yourself? When you’re alone at night, thinking about her? You’ll never be good enough for her.”

Angel tore his gaze away, turning from her. Darla sighed, drifting back towards the couch. “But you’ll always be mine. I’ll always want you.”

“I’m sorry… “ started Angel, not looking at her. “I can’t…”

Darla laughed, sitting again. “Oh, you’re not sorry,” she said simply. “Not when you look at me. But what about—”

“—when you look at me?”

Angel knew the voice before he turned.

Spike.

Angel frowned. What was this new angle? Annoy him into submission? Then he turned, and his stomach rose into his throat.

William the Bloody sat before him, his dark blond hair straggling, his worn clothes a dated mix of rich and poor, aristocrat and gutter-rat. But his shirt was ripped. As was the skin beneath it.

All over his body, Spike was broken, bleeding or bruising. His left shoulder was shredded, flesh hanging in visceral strips, like it had been put through a meat grinder. His right eye was swollen shut; his nose was broken at the bridge. When he spoke, blood dripped from his mouth, coating his cracked lips.

“What? Not who you expected?” he asked tauntingly. “Didn’t think I’d bother with the shiny, polished exterior. God, it took years to cultivate that. But this is what’s inside, always just below the surface.”

Angel jerked his head away, refusing to look. Spike made a move to re-enter his line of vision, but stopped, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs.

“Yeah, those’re broken,” he said, his voice a little strangled with the pain. “You really did a number on me that night, didn’t you?”

Angel hesitantly looked at him again, trying to place the image in his memory. Spike looked at him with almost angry disbelief, as if he were personally insulted.

“You don’t even remember what night this was, do you?” he asked, a little indignantly. Then he rolled his eyes, wincing again at the pain in his swollen right eye. “Well, there are so many choices, aren’t there? This wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence.”

Angel edged away. “Stop it,” he said, and he hated how childish it sounded. Spike stared at him thoughtfully, remembering. Angel could feel his eyes, but couldn’t bring himself to look.

“I really didn’t think it would go like this,” said Spike. “When Dru first brought me to meet you. You were supposed to be a father to me. Or something else. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the abused son became the abusive father. Way of the world.”

“I’m not my father,” said Angel, standing weakly and crossing the room. Anything to get away from the gory visage. Spike tilted his head.

“No, you’re worse,” he said matter-of-factly. “But you were playing to your strengths; can’t blame a man for that. Oh, wait—I can. I blame you.”

Angel put his hands to his head, trying to shut out the voice.

“Please, you’re so easy!” said Spike, laughing despite the obviously excruciating pain in his side. “One reminder of what you did and suddenly your sanity’s holding on by a thread. Really, mate, you need a thicker skin.”

Angel looked over the image of the younger vampire, the irony of his words compared to his torn, shredded skin. He knew it was intentional. It was supposed to mess with him, screw with his mind—

“Do you remember when I killed the priest at that wedding?” asked Spike, flinching in pain as he leaned back against the couch. “The way he flailed—god, I’ll never get tired of that. What about those royal guards—or my first Slayer? You were there, that night. When I drank her dry. All thanks to you, really.”

Angel didn’t answer. He was still weak from coming back from the hell dimension. He tried not to show it, especially when Buffy was around, but he was. And whatever this was that was impersonating Spike—he couldn’t listen to it. He couldn’t…

“I mean, you made me what I was,” continued Spike, as if he were thinking about it for the first time. “Showing me the way, teaching me to be a cold-hearted bastard. A true vampire. How to take what I wanted, have what I wanted. Just like you.”

Angel groaned, unable to shut out the voice. He glared in Spike’s direction. “You were never like me,” he said venomously, but his edge was gone. He was breaking down. Spike shook his head as slightly as he could.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t. I’m not,” he said simply, a grateful inflection hidden in his words like a blade. “But you used that against me, too, didn’t you? Making me fight for Drusilla, for my place in the gang. Tormenting me until my heart turned to stone.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” said Angel defensively. Spike gave him a deadpan look, any vestige of humor gone.

“Right. So all those times I did something you didn’t like and you punished me by taking Drusilla to your bed, by torturing her or me, by doing this—those were just bloody character-building exercises, right?”

Angel looked away again, and Spike gave another painful nod, looking at him intently.

“Look, mate—you know every dirty little kill I made in those first years. How many of those people do you think died because I was trying to prove myself to you?”

“Alright!” half-shouted Angel. “I made you a monster! Is that what you want me to say?” He couldn’t take this torment. It had to end; it just had to end…

Spike rolled his bruised eyes. “No, but it’s good to hear,” he admitted. Then he looked back at Angel pointedly. “Because that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Making people monsters.” He gave a small shrug. “Really, it isn’t me you should be brooding over. Well, maybe a little. But I’m not your masterpiece…”

“No.” Angel shook at the terminology. Masterpiece. No, whatever this was—it couldn’t—

The image of William the Bloody morphed before him.

“… I am,” said a soft, sweet voice.

Angel felt sick. “No. Leave me alone!”

Drusilla stood from the couch, approaching him curiously. The tearstains on her cheeks were mismatched with the inquisitive look in her eyes. Her hair was in shambles. Her simple dress, given to her by the nuns, was in shreds that could have rivaled Spike’s shoulder. Blood ran down her bare legs, glimpsed through the torn fabric. It soaked her stomach and arms. The convent…

She stood close to him, a hair’s breadth from touching him. “Oh, but I’ll never leave you alone, my pet,” she whispered. “I’m yours. You can’t ever squirm away from me.”  


Angel pressed himself away from her, into the wall. He clutched at his head out of instinct, trying to tear things—memories—from his mind. “Stop it… please…”

Drusilla ran her fingers just above his sleeve, toying with him. “Poor Angel. Can’t even see himself anymore. Too busy dancing with the Slayer.”

“Buffy…”

Angel had almost forgotten.

“She makes you hurt. Tears you away from your family,” said Drusilla gently, taking a step away from him. “Makes you think right is wrong and wrong is right. Makes you think that you can’t have what you want.”

Angel watched her, every agonizing memory playing behind his eyes. “We can’t… I can’t have what I want.”

Drusilla met his eyes, her own dark and serious. “My daddy took what he wanted. From me. From my William. From anyone he chose. Nothing stood in his way.”

“That’s not who I am anymore.”

Drusilla just stared at him, her gaze intent. Angel fidgeted even more, feeling as though his insides were being ripped open for all to see. For Buffy to see.

“My daddy’s still in there,” she said. “I can see him. He wants to be free of his cage. His soul. He wants to stretch his wings and fly.”

She took a step towards him, a small smile playing at her mouth. It was a disconcerting image—that knowing, demonic smile on the face of a tortured nun.

“I’m your masterpiece, my Angel,” she said, and her fingers danced through the air, coming to rest just above his heart. “I come from inside you, inside your black heart. I’ll always be there. Singing the songs my mummy sang me. Whispering to you.” She raised her hand and ran it so close to his face that Angel swore that he could feel the cut of her nail. “You’re an artist, my darling. An artist can’t deny the canvas. The picture must be painted.”

Angel swallowed, the desperation inside him focusing. “What picture?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. Drusilla tilted her head, looking over his face in a way that left Angel feeling invaded. She spoke slowly, almost tenderly:

“My daddy taking what he wants—and killing her.”


End file.
